The Voice inside My Head Read online

  Text copyright © 2014 by S.J. Laidlaw

  Published in Canada by Tundra Books,

  a division of Random House of Canada Limited,

  One Toronto Street, Suite 300, Toronto, Ontario M5C 2V6

  Published in the United States by Tundra Books of Northern New York,

  P.O. Box 1030, Plattsburgh, New York 12901

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013936989

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the publisher—or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency—is an infringement of the copyright law.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Laidlaw, S.J., author

  The voice inside my head / by S.J. Laidlaw.

  ISBN 978-1-77049-565-4 (bound).—ISBN 978-1-77049-566-1 (ebook)

  I. Title.

  PS8623.A394V64 2014 jC813′.6 C2013-902296-1

  C2013-902297-X

  Edited by Sue Tate

  Designed by Kelly Hill

  Text images by Katerina Kirilova/Shutterstock.com

  www.tundrabooks.com

  v3.1

  For Captain Jake

  1935–2013

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’ve been uniquely blessed to benefit from the wisdom and talent of several women. First among them is Sue Tate, my editor at Tundra Books, whose meticulous editorial skills are only surpassed by her warmth and compassion.

  Second is my former agent, Andrea Cascardi. I wasn’t at all surprised when she decided to return to editing because she was always the best combination an author could hope for, a truly gifted editorial agent.

  Third are my friends at MiG Writers, who continue to accompany me on the writing journey as we savor the successes and share the angst. It would be a lonelier world without them.

  As always, I want to thank my husband, Richard, who not only supports my writing but didn’t balk when I told him I wanted to buy a home on a tiny island off the coast of Honduras.

  Finally, I owe a debt of gratitude to my parents that I can never repay. To my mother, who is still the most determined woman I know and taught me to read, despite my dyslexia, confidently assuring me I would one day become a writer. And to my father, who shared his own passion for books and talent for writing, and who, for many years, long after his passing, was the voice inside my head.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  CHAPTER 1

  You know that moment when you spot a gorgeous girl across a room and just as you’re working out your opening line, you realize she’s checking you out and it’s like every atom in the universe has lined up to create this one perfect connection?

  Only then it turns out the room is actually a cramped, stifling cabin on a ferry heading to an island off the coast of Honduras, where your sister has disappeared. And you know the authorities might be right — she could have drowned, or got eaten by a shark, or fallen into the hands of South American drug lords — so you start to wonder what kind of person thinks about getting laid when his sister might be dead, or worse. Okay, so maybe you’ve never experienced that exact scenario, but you can see how it might be a buzz kill.

  I turn away from the vision of perfection because all I see now is the face of my sister and I talk to her in my head. I continue the conversation we’ve been having for the past two weeks. I’ll admit right up front that I’m filling in her lines; when you live with someone as opinionated as my sister, it’s not hard to hear her telling you off, even when she’s not there.

  ME: If you’re not dead, I’ll give up weed. I know I told you I’d already stopped, but that was a lie. This time I really will.

  PAT: You’re such a liar.

  ME: This time I mean it, and I won’t cut class anymore either.

  PAT: I thought you’d stopped cutting class. The school didn’t call home once last semester.

  ME: Yeah, about that, they sort of got a note from Mom saying I had mono.

  PAT: You never had mono.

  ME:

  PAT: You wrote that note yourself? You’re unbelievable!

  “Ach!”

  I look at the wet, yellow goo that has just landed on my shorts and the little kid sitting next to me who put it there. He stares at me with ginormous brown eyes, like he’s as surprised as I am to find me covered in barf. His mom leans over and swipes at my shorts with a cloth, which rubs more of it in than off, while the kid edges away from me. Puke-stench soaks the already fetid air as the boat continues to rock violently and my stomach rocks right along with it. I fish my water bottle out of my pack and take a swig. Puke-kid looks at it longingly.

  “I better not see this on my shorts, buddy,” I say, before handing it over.

  He continues the big-eyed stare as he drains my bottle. His mom smiles gratefully. She says something in Spanish, which I don’t understand because Spanish followed Study Hall last year, and Jamie McCredie and I did a lot more weed than studying.

  “Are you going to Utila?”

  I look up in surprise to see the gorgeous girl has made her way to my side of the boat and is swaying over me, her long blond hair brushing my shoulder as she grabs the back of my seat to steady herself. She has an accent; Swedish maybe. That would just figure. The one time in my entire life I get hit on by a hot Swedish girl and I can’t complete the play because I’m obsessing on my sister.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “I’m Birgit.” She smiles.

  “Luke.” I don’t smile.

  She notices my lack of enthusiasm. I expect this is a unique experience in her world, where guys drop at her feet like bugs hitting a zapper.

  “You don’t sound happy,” she says.

  “I’m great.” I show her my teeth.

  “So why are you going to Utila?”

  I doubt she’d be this persistently friendly if she felt she had easier options. We’re on a boat with about forty Hondurans, crowded onto benches built for half that number, with only one other guy who looks like a fellow tourist. Judging by his bleary-eyed stare, he’s not up for chit-chat.

  “I was just going to ask you the same thing.” I wasn’t, but it beats telling her my own life story.

  “It’s supposed to be beautiful,” she gushes, “and I’ve heard the diving’s amazing. I want to snorkel with the whale sharks.”

  I’m bored.

  Hot Swedish chick is boring me.

  I don’t want to hear about beauty, or diving, and I sure as heck don’t want to hear about whale sharks.

  “My sister works at the Whale Shark Research Center.” Damn! I specifically don’t want to talk about my sister. Why can’t I keep my mouth shut?

  “Really?” says Swedish chick, with way too much interest. “That’s amazing. I’d love to meet your sister.”

  Now what? I r
eally don’t want to explain about Pat’s disappearance to a stranger. The truth is, every time I talk about her, I get a pain in my gut. Sometimes it’s all I can do not to throw up. I’m already feeling boat-queasy, so I definitely don’t want to take any chances. I stare out the window. Maybe if I ignore this girl, she’ll take the hint and go away.

  The boat lurches.

  Swedish chick falls into my lap.

  Not making progress here.

  God, she smells good. How does she do that in this heat? Her hair is tickling my face. She shifts in my lap so she’s facing me and says something like “Oooplah,” which makes no sense whatsoever but sounds unbelievably cute. At the same moment, we both stiffen, though not in the same way.

  I’m sure there’s some special hell reserved for guys who get turned on even when they’re on a quest to find their missing sisters. Come to think of it, maybe this is it.

  Spanish lady gives me a disapproving look, like I engineered this situation. She pulls puke-kid onto her lap. It’s not clear if she’s trying to get him away from me or making space for Swedish chick. Whatever the case, Swedish chick wriggles off and squeezes in beside me, which theoretically is a good thing but definitely not helpful under the circumstances.

  “How old are you?” she asks, darting a look at my lap like she needs to confirm the evidence.

  “Seventeen,” I admit.

  “You look older.” She sounds disappointed.

  I get that a lot. I’ve been over six feet since I hit high school, and working construction this summer, I’ve bulked up. I guess I should be happy I look older. It’s an advantage for attracting girls, but this isn’t the first time someone’s expected more from me than I can deliver.

  “I’m twenty,” she offers. “An old lady to you.” She smiles smugly. She knows there isn’t a guy on the planet who would think of her as old. Unattainable, yes. Old, no.

  “Do you have a girlfriend?” she asks in a patronizing tone reserved for little brothers and other lower life forms.

  “Yeah,” I say, giving her a cool look. “She’s twenty-two.”

  I immediately regret the lie. Not that I have a problem with lying, but I don’t like to be pushed into it.

  “Hey, dude!” It’s the bleary-eyed guy, weaving unsteadily toward us. I guess I should have figured he’d migrate over eventually, but I’m amazed to see him upright. “You didn’t tell me you were catching this ferry!” He stops just in front of us and runs a hand through long frizzy hair, which is only marginally redder than his eyes.

  “Hello, miss.” He gives Swedish chick a friendly smile and burps. She eyeballs him disdainfully. “You wouldn’t mind finding another seat so I can sit with my man here, would you?”

  She purses her luscious lips and turns to me. I think fast. Do I go with snotty Swedish chick or crazy stoner guy? It’s no contest, really.

  “Great to see you, man,” I say. He holds out his knuckles and I knock them with my own.

  “Cosmic,” he says.

  Swedish chick shrugs.

  “Good luck,” she says, scrambling over me to get out of her seat. I don’t know which one of us she’s talking to so I don’t answer.

  “Live long and prosper,” says stoner guy, as she pushes past him. “Move over, dude,” he says to me. “Good thing I was here to bail you out.” He heaves a bulging pack off his back and settles into the narrow space I’ve just vacated. Swinging the pack onto his knees, he begins rifling through it, talking the whole time. “That girl was so not into you, man, and who needs that kind of action, right?” He belches loudly and Spanish lady clicks her tongue. “I almost missed this ferry. Three-day vacation on the mainland, like that’s a vacation. Where the heck …?” He stretches out the opening of his pack and stares into it. “Yes!” Grinning, he slides his hand deep into the bag and pulls out a beer, hands it to me and fishes out another. Uncapping it with his teeth, he trades it for the unopened one I’m holding and cracks that one, too.

  “Are we allowed to drink on this boat?” I ask. Aside from the fact that it’s eight in the morning, I really can’t afford any trouble right now.

  “This is Honduras, man.” He seems to think that answers my question. Maybe it does.

  “So, who are you, anyway?” I try to sound casual, like I don’t notice his shirt’s on inside out and he smells like he hasn’t showered in days.

  He gives a half-smile (perhaps he’s not as clueless as he seems) and chugs at least three-quarters of his beer in one go. Another time, this would impress me.

  Okay, I’ll be honest, it does impress me.

  “I’m Zach,” he says, his smile fading as he starts picking at the label of his beer. For a moment I think he’s going to say something more, but he just sighs, polishes off the dregs and starts rummaging in his bag again.

  “Damn, I was sure I had one more in here.” He turns to me as if I might have an explanation, which I’m pretty sure I do. I hold up my beer.

  “Ohhh,” he says slowly. “Gotcha.” He puts his bag on the floor and slumps back in his seat. “I’m supposed to stop drinking, anyway. The boss gave me a couple of days off to dry out. That’s why I went to the mainland. I figure if he doesn’t see me drinking, it doesn’t count, right?”

  “You can have it back,” I offer. “I haven’t touched it.”

  “No, that’s okay.” He leans in and whispers confidentially, “I had a couple before I got on the boat.” The smell of his breath makes my stomach twist.

  “Yeah? Never would have guessed.”

  He grins. “I’ve always been like that; I can be totally wasted and people never know.”

  “Huh. So, if you don’t mind me asking, how did you manage a couple of beers before we sailed? We left at 7:00 a.m.”

  He looks at me for a moment, before emitting another malodorous belch. “You’re wondering how I could’ve been drinking so early?”

  I nod and try breathing through my mouth.

  “I wasn’t drinking early.” He pauses. “I was drinking late. I started last night and I only finished this morning.”

  I don’t point out that technically he hasn’t finished yet. I just hand over my beer.

  “Thanks, man.” He takes a long swig, rests the bottle on his knee and immediately tears up.

  “Are you okay?” I’m a little rattled by his sudden mood swings, though I’m not one to talk. Since Pat’s disappearance, my own moods have been all over the place.

  “Nah, not really.” He sighs. “I’m in mourning. A friend of mine drowned last week.” He looks at me sadly, waiting for me to ask him about it.

  I don’t. In fact, I madly try to think of some way to change the subject.

  I know he’s talking about Pat. The island we’re heading for has a total area of seventeen square miles, three-quarters of it wetlands and mangrove swamp. The population, crammed into one tiny corner, makes up a staggering six thousand people. And with all those people, the last drowning they had, other than the alleged drowning of my sister, was a beached whale, over a year ago. I did my homework. And I’m not discussing Pat with this alcoholic headcase.

  “Her name was Tricia.” Apparently, he’s going to tell me anyway. “She was beautiful. She had this amazing black hair, like shoe polish or really shiny black stones, and green eyes, like grass but not dried-out grass, fresh grass, like in springtime. And when she looked at you with those spring-grass eyes, it was like she saw you were a good person and not some loser whose own mother kicked him out just because he hit her boyfriend, who totally deserved it, and he was the loser, not me. You know what I mean?”

  I twist the strap of my backpack around my fist.

  First of all, no one calls her Tricia, and it’s not like they haven’t tried. With a name like Patricia it could go either way, and she’s cheerleader pretty, so there’s always some guy who thinks Tricia sounds cutesy, but Pat terminates those guys like they’re enemy combatants. Second, I know exactly what he means. Pat’s not just a good person. She’s so relentle
ssly, optimistically good, she makes everyone around her want to try harder. I wouldn’t say she succeeded where I am concerned, but as long as she’s there, I feel there’s hope.

  “So were you close friends?” I ask. I don’t really want to hear how my sister deserted our family so she could go help some other messed-up kid sort out his life, but I can’t help but feel sorry for the guy. He’s clearly miserable, and one way or another it’s Pat’s fault. Since she’s not here, it kind of makes it my responsibility.

  “The best,” he says enthusiastically. “She was my best friend. Whenever we went drinking, she would always make sure I got home safely, and she never laughed at me, not once.”

  I sit up straight and stare at him. We have to be talking about different girls. My sister doesn’t drink. She’s the poster child for responsible living: no alcohol, no drugs, no sex. I used to say no life. But that joke’s not so funny anymore.

  “So what happened to your friend?” I demand, trying to keep the eagerness out of my voice.

  “That’s the thing, man, no one knows. One minute she was there, partying with the rest of us, and the next minute she’s gone. Poof. No one saw her leave or anything. The police say she drowned, but I don’t think so.”

  Ditto.

  I didn’t believe it for a second when my parents came back from Utila with a police report claiming my sister had drowned. They went through the whole report with me, pointing out that her clothes were found at the end of a dock, like she’d stripped off to go swimming. That part was believable. And apparently there was rain the night she disappeared so the waves may have been high. I don’t think she would have gone in the water on a really stormy night, but that too is possible. Pat’s a strong swimmer. It really would have depended on how bad the weather was, and the report wasn’t very specific.

  I don’t deny she’s missing. No one’s seen her for more than two weeks, and all her belongings are still in her room, except for the clothes they found on the dock. But she’s far more likely to have been kidnapped or gotten lost in the jungle. Unfortunately, the authorities are so satisfied with their bogus drowning scenario that they aren’t even looking anymore. Ergo the road trip. Well, not road exactly. But someone needs to search for my sister. If the authorities won’t, then I will.